Family - The Ties That Bind...And Gag! (6 page)

I cannot tell you the number of times I tried to lure them into the kitchen with teasers like, “Have you no curiosity as to how the cereal gets into the bowl?” or “Come. Stand by my side and together we will 'just add water.' ” Once when I made my son watch as I mixed a Caesar salad, lie looked at the oil, bits of garlic, lemon juice, Worcestershire sauce, Parmesan, and a raw egg floating in the bowl and said, “That's gross” and walked away.

Take the kid in the utility room pushing every button in sight. Did I not try to share with him my years of experience? “You have to have patience for a 'sparkling wash,' ” I told him. “Wet is just not good enough.” For twenty minutes once, I shared with him the ecstasy of burying your face in a stack of clean underwear. You'd have thought I was giving him instructions on how to fuel a nuclear reactor. He said he was against it and he didn't want to bring his children into a world of bleach.

Kids just have a different set of priorities for their life-styles. Traditionally, when their parents got their first apartment, it looked like a stripped-down version of the home they just left. Today's generation is different.

If there are no plugs in the bathroom? They don't care.

If the room isn't wired for heating? They don't care.

If the front door doesn't close? They don't care.

If there's a commune of bikers living next door? They don't care.

If the stove doesn't work? They don't care.

If there are two large walls that will hold the weight of their speakers, they'll rent it.

I remember the first time we visited our son's apartment.

I stood at the door numbly. It was minutes before I realized that I had just handed my coat to a cockroach who hung it up on the curtain rod in the shower.

My eyes scanned his room. A sofa with a single sheet and a blanket. A card table with four folding chairs. Two cereal bowls, three spoons, a phone with a 50-foot cord, and a $4,000 stereo.

I opened up his refrigerator door. On the first shelf was a container half full of yogurt. On the second shelf was a roll of film and a hardened lime. A doggie bag in the meat keeper was later identified as sweet and sour pork.

How did it happen that I raised three children who never picked up anything but a fork?

Somewhere between boiling the pacifier and buying black towels, I lost 'em. I don't know how or why, but I unleashed upon society three kids who think self-cleaning bathrooms have already been invented.

What really frosts me is that it reflects on me. You have to believe me when I say, they weren't raised this way. I use soap when I do dishes. I don't wear a shirt the fourth day by turning it wrong-side-out. I do not store Slushee cups under the gas pedal. I do not sleep on pillows that have no cases on them, nor have I ever drunk milk out of a carton. Before every meal I used to ask, “Did you wash your hands and face?”

In reply, a 24-inch tongue came out of their mouths and, like a street cleaner, made a path, bordered on the north by a nose, east and west by cheeks, and on the south by a chin. A simple “no” would have done it.

You're looking at a woman who, for years, declared all-out war on her children's bedrooms. I had to. Baby-sitters would demand medical benefits before coming to sit. I couldn't set a full table without visiting their rooms.

A psychologist I admired said parents made too much of things and reacted too strongly. All I had to do was lay out a situation, then praise the child for it. For example, if a child left a book on the floor, all I had to say was, “There's a book on the floor,” and he would arrive at the decision of what should be done with it. The child would be in control, not me.

To test the theory, I put a book on the floor and said to the first child to arrive, “There's a book on the floor.” He said “I know. I nearly broke my neck tripping over it. Better pick it up,” and disappeared. The second one came by and when I told him of the book said, “You're real swift today.”

I got so disgusted, I didn't try it with the third one.

Still, his turn came. One day after I viewed his bedroom, I thought I should give him the chance to redeem himself.

When he asked me to go to a movie with him, I said, “I'd love to go to the movie with you, but I have to do all the work you didn't do today.”

There was genuine concern written all over his face. “How much more do you have to do?” he asked.

“There's your dirty clothes all over the floor, your dirty dishes under the bed to take out, your bed to make, your trash to be disposed of, your wet towels to take to the laundry room, and your floor to be vacuumed.”

“Hey Mom,” he said, “I think I know where you're coming from. Why don't you just get up earlier tomorrow morning and do it?”

The way he lived today shouldn't have been a surprise.

After dinner he said, “Don't bother with the dishes. I'll put them in the dishwasher.”

I said, “You don't have a dishwasher.” He said, “Of course I do. It's under the stove.”

“That's an oven,” I said. He shrugged and said, “No wonder the glasses have spots.”

My husband finally could keep quiet no longer. “What's with the roaches?”

“You mean Stewart? I'm working with him to enter him in the Largest Roach in America contest.”

“I've never seen one hang up a coat before,” I conceded.

“I don't know,” said my husband. “You don't know anything about him. Suppose he used to travel with a German girls' Olympics swim team and had access to steroids.”

“Or maybe he posed nude for National Geographic when he was younger and needed money,” I said.

“On the other hand,” said his father, “he could walk off with Miss Congeniality and a doughnut endorsement.”

Our son looked at us. “Are you two putting me on? Because there is a prize of $1,000.”

“That's different,” said my husband. “If you won, you could fog this whole place and claim your own bed again.”

We talked about it on the way home. Actually, the cockroach and our son had a lot in common. They both came out at night, ate cold fast food, and knew how to empty a room.

Still, their relationship seemed unnatural.

In retrospect, I've learned a lot about kids on their own since the first ,one peeled off. You never drop in on them unless you have a nitroglycerin tablet ready to slip under your tongue. It is possible to maintain a rapport with them and still know where the dog eats and what a quart of milk is doing on the back of the commode. Just give them four to six weeks' notice before visiting.

You never ask to see the $88 wool afghan you brought them from Ireland unless you're prepared to see it after they washed it in hot water, tossed it in the dryer, and are now using it for a coaster.

Resist the temptation to bring their apartment up to health standards. It will only cause you pain when you return in a few months and find everything as it was before you cleaned it.

I know a lot of parents who get very discouraged. There is one thought that keeps me going. One of these days they will have children of their own.

Come to think of it, it's the only thing.

“YOU SHOULD HAVE GONE BEFORE YOU LEFT HOME”

Friday: 8:30 p.m.

It was my fourth trip to the garage since one son had transferred the snake from the utility room to the hood of my car. This time I had three phone books to add to the top of the cage.

“Whatya doin', Mom?” asked his owner. “You giving these phone books the pitch?”

They're for the snake," I said.

“Trust me when I tell you he doesn't know a soul in town to call.”

“That's not funny. I'm making sure he doesn't escape.”

“Jeez,” he gasped, “you already have a bag of cement, two 50-pound weights from the weight bench, and a car battery on top of the cage. If it ever caves in, you'll kill him, and every time you try on a pair of pumps in I. Magnin, you'll wonder if it was ”your son's friend.' "

“I don't know why you are doing this to me,” I whined, “you know how terrified I am of snakes. Remember that time we stopped by the road in Michigan on vacation? I was a nervous wreck.”

He sat on the garbage can with his feet drawn up under his chin. “We sure had some 'interesting' times on vacations, didn't we? That summer in Maine ... and that dude ranch in Indiana. It was always good for you and Dad to get away, I guess, but it was sure tough on us kids. We had to sit there in the back seat like statues afraid to breathe. We couldn't talk. We couldn't move. Just ride. The three of us cramped together like sardines used to envy you and Dad laughing and talking with nothing to do but ride and read the road map. Remember?”

Remember? I was not likely to forget the hitchhiker who, after 20 miles, wrote us a check to let him out of the car. God, how I envied him. Those trips were like death marches.

A lot of families play games in the car to pass the time, like “Count the Cows” or “Out-of-State License Bingo.” Our children played a game called, “Get Mama.” It was a 400-mile nonstop argument that began in the driveway and didn't end until I threatened to self-destruct. Through scenic highways, majestic mountains, and amber waves of grain, they argued.

They argued for 75 miles on whether or not you could run a car 100 miles in reverse without stalling. They debated how workers in the U.S. Treasury Department could defraud the detectors by putting $100 bills in their mouths and not smiling until they got past security. They argued about whether or not you could use a yo-yo on the moon and whether or not hair would grow over a vaccination. They discussed at length what if a nun were allowed to become a priest, would you call her “Father”?

They threatened to “slap” a minimum of 55 times and “punch” 85 times, said “I'm telling” 149 times, and whispered, “I'll give you one where it hurts” too many times to count.

The only bright spot I can ever remember was once when I slumped against the door and it wasn't closed all the way and I nearly fell out.

It amazes me how every year, a childless writer will set down suggestions on the joys of traveling with children.

One article I read recommended you "put pillows, snacks, a change of clothes, and some of the children's favorite toys inside the car where they can be easily reached.

"Plan for rest stops about every two hours and, if possible, take a brief walk on these stops.

"Once back on the road, talk about what they saw and did during each stop.

“Use your imagination for other kinds of entertainment. Play guessing games and sing songs.”

Well, if that doesn't make you want to go right out and rent a child for your next trip ... nothing will.

But you're not talking to an amateur. I have traveled with children for the last twenty years and have been in three rest homes and two encounter groups, have written fifteen letters to Dale Evans asking for spiritual guidance, and was in analysis two years after I admitted abandoning a ten-year-old in a roadside gift shop. I have a few suggestions of my own.

The pillow is a great idea. The first one who whines, “Make him stop looking at me,” gets it... right over the face.

As for commercial games and toys, forget 'em. Children usually like to make up their own. In addition to “Get Mama,” there's “Name That Thud!” With her head turned toward the window, Mom has to guess what is making Robbie cry out in pain. There's “Window Roulette” where all the bodies in the back seat are airborne trying to get a seat by the two windows. Other cars will often slow down to watch this one.

I personally like “Statue,” a takeoff on the old summer game where Mom reaches over the back seat, gives each a rap, and no matter what position a child lands in, he must remain that way for the next 200 miles.

If you encourage a child to share with you his observations of the last pit stop, be prepared to hear language from a rest room wall that will make your radiator boil over.

Frankly, 1 have some questions about jamming a family into a car together for a couple of weeks in pursuit of happiness. It has been explained to me a thousand times, but I still don't understand why it is that men feel obliged to start a vacation at four in the morning.

I mean, what good are breathtaking colors of the Smoky Mountains in the dark? How can you feel the pulse and excitement of New York City when a passed-out wino is the only thing on the street? What good is a vacation if you can't keep awake through lunch?

We were the first family ever to “See America First” by headlights. Every morning before hitting the road, we would be awakened by the sound of the alarm going off in the middle of the night. Picking my way through the darkness, I'd guide arms and legs through clothes. It was like threading a needle with wet spaghetti. As the kids continued to sleep, I'd walk them to the car and arrange them in the back seat.

They never awoke asking, “Where are we?” It was always, “What time is it?” They could never play games other children played, like “Count the Chevys” or “Out-of-State License Plate Rummy.” There weren't any cars on the road.

We'd sit there like zombies, listening to the hog and grain markets on the car radio, trying to figure out which meal we would spoil if we ate a candy bar.

Once we stopped at a roadside park for a potty break, and I hooked my sweater over the hood ornament to keep from falling down. About the same time, a station wagon pulled in with another family. They looked terrible. The kids stumbled along with blankets dragging on the ground, their hair uncombed, their eyes puffy and glazed. The woman and I didn't say anything at first. Our eyes met in that rare moment of understanding; there was no need to speak. Finally I whispered, “Courage, Sister!” I think of her often.

I wondered if she married a man who regarded asking for directions anywhere as a genetic weakness. I wish I had a dime for eveiy cloverleaf we circled for eight days. “Dear,” I'd suggest, “why don't you ask directions from someone?”

“Because I am not lost,” he would say. “That's the difference between men and women. Women don't like to figure things out. As soon as they see a cow in a field they panic and right away start asking directions.”

It was only the first of many trips where we wandered aimlessly about the countryside, too lost to last... and too proud to ask.